


Umbrella

by Anonymous6285



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bittersweet, Crying, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25820179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous6285/pseuds/Anonymous6285
Summary: George feels awful and disconnected. Ringo helps just enough.
Relationships: George Harrison & Ringo Starr
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is based on my own experiences with bipolar, and it may not be the same as what somebody else may feel

George laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a million thoughts running through his head, but he couldn’t focus on just one of them. He was too busy willing away the sting in his eyes, there for absolutely no reason. He wanted to cry, he thought it’d make him feel better, but how was he supposed to cry when there was nothing to cry about? And if Ringo could walk in at any second?

It was already nearly five thirty, and he hadn’t left the room, so the drummer had to have been getting worried. Yesterday, he hadn’t gotten up but a few times to use the toilet, so that was already worrying enough, and he hadn’t eaten at all, either… 

Just the fact that his friend could find him like this was scary, and if he was crying, it’d be even harder to explain. Why did he have to feel like this? He rolled over in the bed, suddenly feeling very hot. Beads of sweat made the clammy feeling on his skin even worse, but he couldn’t find the energy to throw the blanket off of himself.

He tried his best to ignore it when his stomach growled for the umpteenth time since yesterday morning. An even stronger urge to cry overwhelmed him as his brain took the opportunity to realise he had been so bad to himself. He was so incompetent that he couldn’t even eat food when he needed it.

But even thinking about getting up to get food made him want to cry, too. Was there anything that didn’t? Maybe playing guitar would help him feel better. But he just wasn’t interested at all. Was that it, then? Had he just lost all his hobbies, waiting to spend the rest of his life in absolute boredom and depression.

Why couldn’t he just feel any different? Every time this happened, he still made no effort to change it. The tears were becoming inevitable, as they did every hour when he was just too weak to handle his basic emotions. They started to slip out of his eyes, and not two seconds later, an awful migraine pounded through his head. He wanted to die right then and not have to live through this.

He involuntarily sobbed rather loudly as he curled up on his side, back facing the door. He didn’t even notice when it opened, nor when something was set on the table beside his bed. He only noticed when there was a weight on his bed behind him, and a hand touched his arm, rubbing it ever so slightly.

“Hey, Georgie. I just came to check on you.” He didn’t mention anything about how much time the guitarist had spent hiding away from everything or how little he’d had to eat. He didn’t even seem to notice or care about the tears, either.

It helped a bit, not reminding George of the never ending rain cloud above him. And the way he spooned him offered a level of comfort.

“I brought some ice chips if you want them. Might help your stomach if you’re not ready to eat yet.”

“Thanks,” came George’s hushed voice. He didn’t know how else to respond to the sweetest thing he’d heard all day. Everything else had been all the evil voices in his head.

“Yeah, of course, love.” As the younger man felt his hand start to get further around his waist, he realised this was a lot of touching for a friend he considered platonic. “Hey, erm, I know you don’t want to, but maybe we could go sit outside for a while.”

George grunted, sniffling as more tears stung at his closed eyelids. He had to bite his lips together to stop from sobbing, but Ringo could still see how uncomfortable he looked.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want--”

“I’m sorry, Rich. I feel bad, I just don’t know… sorry.” Ringo didn’t move.

“That’s alright. Don’t focus on me. Focus on what you need. That comes first.” They stayed there for a few more minutes before George mumbled something inaudibly. “What was that?”

“Do you think it’d help?” His voice was timid, on the verge of tears again. It wasn’t like Ringo hadn’t already seen him at some of his lowest points these last few months, but he’d never get over the embarrassment of it.

“I don’t know. It’s worth a try, yeah? You won’t even have to change.” George rolled over to face his friend, revealing how red his face really was. “Unless you want to, of course.”

The guitarist shook his head and started to sit up. His legs ached like crazy, but he’d gone this far, he couldn’t give up now. He fought through the urge to lay back down and be left alone with his thoughts, finally sitting up in the bed. God, that was exhausting, but Ringo took his hand and helped him up, cup of ice chips in his hand.

“Did you want some?” George nodded, reaching his hand in and grabbing one, slipping it in his mouth. The coolness of it gave him some sort of energy that got him walking, and the two of them walked right out the front door, standing just in the sunlight. 

George hummed, leaning into Ringo. “S’bright out here.”

“Do you want to go in?” He shook his head, and the drummer saw one more tear fall from his closed eyes.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “What’s it like? Being normal? Being able to handle your own emotions without fucking breaking?”

Ringo sighed. “Well, love, it’s not that you’re not normal. You’re just different. And no, it’s not fair. You know, I’d take this all away from you if I could.” George sniffled again, not responding. “Remember, it’s just like weather, yeah? Like Julie said. You remember that?” A nod. “It’s a horrible storm, but the sun is still there behind the clouds.”

“I know,” he muttered dreadfully. “At least I have my very own umbrella.” He smiled at Ringo. “That’s you, love.”

“An umbrella won’t do you much good in a hurricane,” he laughed, making George smile.

“I know, but it gives me something to hold onto until the hurricane’s gone. So I’m not alone.”

Ringo let that sink in. He was glad his friend was able to feel a little more stable with him around. It made him feel useful, loved.

And they both sat there in the sun, saying nothing, for a few minutes, before George started to cry, immediately spewing off apologies. He sat down on the sidewalk, and Ringo got down next to him, hugging him, just letting him know he was there no matter what.

“I’m proud of you, love.”

“What for?” His voice cracked with a sob as he spoke.

“For getting out of bed. For getting through this. It’s a lot.” George didn’t smile, and continued to cry. But his grip on Ringo’s hand tightened. When had he grabbed the drummer’s hand? “I love you, Georgie.”

“You, t-t-too.” He couldn’t have asked for a better friend.


End file.
